As a simple sack, Ezra Pound, poet grandee in the turbulence, would carry on. His friends and doormats knew whereupon he stood. And he wasn’t always complete, wrong or otherwise. Some freshets smell like tuckered, specifically instruments with which tucks are made. The merest tuck, in the fabric, becomes a given. If taken, the cheerless will survive with logopoeia as operating system, glossary. flourish, sublime and gross nature. Pound heroically bound up and out, requiring adjustment and more reading, even some of the words. Words stayed crooked, fusty, bleary while also rated rational. No more maundering stars unless settled upon. This simple wanting sack in time for outermost scuttle but absolutely like pure. Personal oblivion counts for zero but zero itself scores as new excitement. So glad that words were there to be there, for the sack of everything held dear.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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